Classic Poem

O book, distilled from joy and tears,
From passion, sorrow, error, strife,
The epic of my earlier life,
The record of my wandering years,

Thou whom my youthful hands began,
And manhood's touch now lingers o'er,
Fashioned on Egypt's ruined shore,
And 'midst the valleys of Japan,

Canst thou a station find and hold
Among the songs which charm the world?
Or wilt thou be unkindly hurled
Back to this vine-clad cottage old

Where now I sit, in doubtful mood
Whether or not to give thee flight?
O world, whate'er thy voice — 'tis right!
O book, whate'er thy fate — 'tis good!